


Little Hell

by beautiful_flyaway



Series: City & Colour; Friend to Lover [2]
Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Friends to Lovers, Love Triangles, M/M, displacement of feelings, the one where connor won't get his head out of his ass, transference
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-02
Updated: 2017-09-11
Packaged: 2018-12-22 20:42:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,998
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11974641
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beautiful_flyaway/pseuds/beautiful_flyaway
Summary: Will we get out of this little Hell?“Me and Connor just connected; we became really close. We had such a close bond, we were always together.”





	1. We Found Each Other in the Dark

**Author's Note:**

> Hey Guys! The long awaited (by like. literally only me) sequel to Sometimes! TBH, the biggest struggle was finding another Canadian album I liked enough to do this with... and it ended up being another City and Colour album, because Dallas Green's voice is literally like velveteen butter. Who knew? So, here it is! The McStrome sequel! What's gonna happen? I'm just as curious as you are! 
> 
> Song:  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=er5BJuO0KEo

_I heard the church bells from afar,_

_But we found each other in the dark._

_And when the smoke does finally pass_

_We will rise above all the ash._

                _“Me and Connor just connected; we became really close. We had such a close bond, we were always together.”_

When Dylan first came to Erie, it seemed to him like a city that never saw the sun; the grey clouds that overcast the Pennsylvania skies were oppressive… just like the loneliness that had consumed him since moving. Not to sound like. Dramatic, or anything.

                Of course, Dylan was thrilled to be playing in the OHL, thrilled to have been drafted to the Otters, but it was. It was hard leaving everything behind in Mississauga. He’d watched Ryan leave in the same manner just a few years prior, knew the gaping hole his big brother’s absence left in his life. He was doing the same thing to Matty now, and leaving his parents with one less son in the house. But that was just the life of a hockey family, he supposed. Give up everything for a chance at making it to the show.

                And, God, he wanted to make it.

                His billet family was nice, his room was comfortable, but Erie was grey and he missed his home.

                It was only 9pm by the time Dylan got settled in, but he was already exhausted from the whole… moving to a new country thing, and his first practice with the Otters was first thing in the morning, which meant his had to be in full equipment and ready to hit the ice at 8am sharp. So when his head touched the pillow that night, he was already fast asleep, and dreaming about freshly sharpened blades skating along smooth white ice.

_So bright, the flames burned in our hearts,_

_That we found each other in the dark._

                Dylan never had any trouble getting along with people, so meeting his new team was easy. So was getting back on the ice. It was all like breathing. And practice was fun –  especially when they started playing five on five, and Dylan ended up as lineys with Connor McDavid, who’s name had been making rounds in the hockey community since he was thirteen. He’d never understood the hype until he played beside him; his hockey was phenomenal, he was sharp and quick, all his passes seemed to connect effortlessly… and he looked like a CCM model while he did all of it.

                In the locker room, when their practice drew to a close, McDavid plunked himself down on the bench next to Dylan. He pulled his helmet off, and a head of messy, strawberry blonde came loose from underneath, the ends darkened and damp with sweat. He smiled at Dylan, a reserved kind of smile that wasn’t really shy, but… guarded, like he knew he was on home ice here, but he wanted to approach the interloper with caution.

                “Hey, nice game out there,” Connor offered, leaning down to unlace his skates. Dylan responded with a smile of his own.

                “Yeah, man. You too. You play, uh, good,” was his response, because he was eloquent as fuck. Connor’s smile widened into this big, dorky thing that was entirely too toothy, but disarmingly charming in a weird way, and Dylan felt a pang of something strange and unfamiliar run down his spine… It was a feeling that would become _too_ familiar soon enough. They redressed in their civvies in relative silence after that, and when Connor left the locker room, and retreated back into the corridors of the Erie Insurance Arena, Dylan found himself watching after him: the way his t-shirt clung to the muscles of his lats and delts, the way his waist tapered off, and then softly curved into hips that swung gently as he walked…

                God, what was going on in Dylan’s head?

                He shoved his remaining belongings into his equipment bag, and made his own way to the door, only to find McDavid waiting at the exit.

                “Hey, Strome?” He asked, catching Dylan by the shoulder. “I, uh… look, I know you’re not from around here, and I remember my first little while here was pretty lonely, and my two best friends just got traded, and. And usually me and them would go out for food after practice, and –“

                “Are you asking me to go out to eat with you?” Dylan asked, unable to stifle his laughter at Connor’s awkwardness.

                “Uh. Yeah?”

                “Yes, for the love of God, please show me what’s edible in this grey city.”

                Russ’s Dinor was… quaint. It was a small, old timey looking place with home cooked food, and staff that knew Connor by name when they walked in. Once they situated themselves at a booth by the window, a waitress came over, with glasses of ice water, a bright smile, and thinly veiled flirting for Connor.

                “Who’s your new friend, Davo?” She asked, smiling briefly over at Dylan before turning her attention back to Connor.

                “This is Dylan. He’ll be playing with the Otters from now on,” he explained. He continued to talk to the girl, but Dylan had already stopped listening, opting instead to watch “Davo” talk about the upcoming Otters season, apparently oblivious to the fact that her only interest was him, and not the game. But he just seemed to… light up when he talked about hockey. Dylan didn’t want to claim that he understood it, because he’d known the guy for a day, but. But he knew the feeling of hockey setting his soul on fire. Knew that the only way to cool the blaze was to surround himself with ice. And as he watched Connor, he was pretty sure he recognized that flame burning in his eyes.

                It was a kind of beautiful, entrancing flame.

                After a while, she managed to coax an order out of them both, and then it was just the two of them again. And, while Dylan could strike up a casual, mundane conversation with just about anyone, he found himself enthralled with every word the two of them exchanged. Dylan could feel that the two of them were very different; where he was boisterous and quick to act, Connor was quiet, and everything he did was carefully thought out. Where Dylan was admittedly immature, Connor was just the opposite… But as time slipped away between them, so did their differences, and by the time their meals were cleared, there was no denying that Dylan Strome had found a special connection with Connor McDavid.

                It had been several hours since their arrival at Russ’s Dinor, when Dylan leaned across the table towards Connor, and whispered conspiratorially.

                “Hey, I need to tell you something,” he said, and Connor moved in closer to him, a serious expression creasing his brow and thinning his full lips into a hard line. Dylan pointed out the window towards the restaurant’s sign. “I’m not the smartest guy… But I’m pretty damn sure that’s not how you spell _diner_.”

                He would later pinpoint Connor’s corresponding laughter as the exact moment Dylan fell for him.

_Through the black starless water,_

_And the cold lonely air._

_On the rock restless seas,_

_The vessel in deep disrepair._

_And I swore they started singing,_

_But then oh, rejoice!_

_I can still hear your voice._


	2. Natural Disaster

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Moving ahead, back to present day, Davo's head is a chaotic place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zoM5hLZ09R0

_Can you imagine all the homes abandoned and all alone?_

_With no one left to care for their wilting bones_

                “ _Going through it with him is very special._ _It’s going to be very special to go through something like this with him.”_

Yeah, _special_ was about the only way Connor knew how to describe everything about his relationship with Dylan Strome. About just… Dylan Strome in general. Connor had known it since that very first day Dyls had skated next to him in Erie that there was something, well… special between them. And then at Russ’s, over pancakes and way too much bacon, he’d made Connor feel happier than he’d felt since he’d first gotten wind of Stephen and Hayden’s trades.

                Dylan was exactly what he needed at that point in his life, and from then on he just seemed to, like, keep being exactly what he needed. Dylan was always just the person Connor needed at any given time in his life; When he broke his hand, Dylan became his caregiver; when he became the Otter’s captain, Stromer was his left hand man, sporting an A; in Sunrise, Florida, when Connor thought he was going to puke up everything he’d ever eaten, Dylan was there with his dorky double handed waving to calm Connor’s nerves.

                So, when they were separated – Connor to Edmonton, and Dylan back to Erie – things were hard. Sure, they like. Texted, and face timed and stuff, and Connor made friends on the Oilers, but it wasn’t the same as being able to physically be together. To skate together, and get breakfast at Russ’s, and hug out their cellies and. It sucked.

                Being an NHL superstar was pretty amazing. Literally the dream that he’d worked for his whole life. But doing it without Stromer by his side sucked.

                “Davo,” there was a murmur against his throat, and soft lips caressed his jugular while long fingers slipped below the hem of his t-shirt, seeking more skin on skin. “Davo, you’re thinking too loud.”

                And that seemed accurate, because he couldn’t get out of his own head lately. Even now, literal seconds away from getting laid… Connor was thinking about Dylan. And like, what the fuck was that about? In lieu of a response, he threaded his hand into the head of dark hair that was tucked into the crook of his neck.

                “Then make me forget how to think, Nuge,” Connor purred, before tugging Ryan up into a rough kiss. And he knew Ryan would do just that, but it would only last until they were both spent, and his team mate was curled around him, looking at him a little too honestly, wanting permission to stay the night. Permission that Connor wouldn’t grant, because Connor knew he’d keep Nuge up all night with his loud thoughts.

                 Thoughts that were definitely not of Ryan Nugent-Hopkins, even if they both would have liked for them to be, because Connor knew Nuge wanted more than just this casual fucking. Connor knew it could be so easy with Ryan too, but as soon as he was out of Connor’s body, he was also out of his head.

_There's no electricity flowing through these lifeless veins_

                It was the third week of August, and Connor was in Toronto for BioSteel camp the following week, but until then he had some time to kill in the GTA. Which meant his plan was to spend seven days in Mississauga with Stromer. The first few days had been great, just classic Davo and Stromer and as usual, Dylan had Connor feeling happier than anyone in the world ever had. Probably ever would.

                But on the fourth day, Dylan and Connor were sitting in Dylan’s bedroom, playing NHL18. They were both piled onto Stromer’s bed, Dylan leaning back against a stack of pillows, and Connor pressed into his side as they chirped each other’s bad plays. Dylan’s body was warm against him, and he could feel their breathing was in sync, and it was just. Nice. It felt like everything Connor wished their lives could have been if they could have somehow been drafted to the same team, or played for the Otters forever.

                So, yeah, things were basically perfect until Connor felt his phone vibrate in his pocket towards the end of their current game, which distracted him just enough to let Dylan get the game winning goal. His gloating smile was disarming, and Connor wanted to tell him that being cocky wasn’t a good trait… but he couldn’t. It looked good on Stromer. Before they started the next round, Connor dug his phone out of his pants and saw he had a message from Ryan.

                It was a picture message… of Ryan Nugent-Hopkins’ hard dick in his hand, a drop of precum glistening at the tip. And like… _oh._ Connor shut the screen off in a hurry, and he was acutely aware of how close he was to Dylan, and of his own cock, now half-hard and pressing against the fly of his jeans.

                When Connor scrambled, a little too obviously, a little too quickly away from his best friend, Stromer noticed, looked at him with a question in his eyes. A question that Connor didn’t really know how to answer because, even after all this time, Connor had still never figured out how to tell him that he was into dudes. And now definitely wasn’t sure how to explain that the Nuge being huge had given him a raging semi.

                Dylan was still looking at him. His dark eyes were warm and welcoming, but confused and maybe a little bit pained, and Connor was struck wondering why he’d ever felt the need to keep any secrets from him, because Dylan was like a chameleon, always adapting to be the exact person Connor needed, and he’d never like. Like, turn him away or whatever because of a preference for dick. Dylan would always adapt to be the person Connor needed.

                “Davo, you’re being weird. What’s up?” Dylan finally asked, after a silence that had spanned too long, and had been filled with nothing but Connor’s noisy thoughts.

                “Dyls, you’re my best friend. So I feel really weird that I’ve been keeping a secret from you, but I’ve been scared you’d, like, treat me different or whatever if I told you?”

                “Okay, yeah, but no. You can tell me anything, Davo. You know that,” Dylan placed a comforting hand on Connor’s thigh, and a load of tension that Connor didn’t even realize he’d been carrying left his body.

                “Yeah. I, uh, it’s just that I like… guys, and uh…” Connor wasn’t entirely sure where his sentence was headed, but it didn’t matter because he was cut off by Dylan’s mouth pressing softly against his, and he tasted like the Coke he was just drinking, and he smelled like Old Spice and Connor felt the hairs on the back of his neck prick up, and his stomach tie in knots, and when Dylan pulled away it felt like an eternity had passed, but really it was only been a couple of seconds and. And Dylan was smiling his trademark Stromer Smile and if Connor thought his head was loud before, now it was absolutely screaming in confusion.

                Connor was glad for his years of press training, because he’s sure his words were coming out of their own accord, and all he could think about was being kissed by Dylan.

                “Stromer… Oh no, Stromer, that’s not what I meant. I love you, yeah. You know that, you’re my best friend. But I cherish our friendship too much for that. I don’t want to ruin what we have,” maybe he was rambling, but he was also backing away, and climbing off of Dylan’s bed and planning on making a bee line out of the Strome household. He was standing in the threshold of Dylan’s bedroom, and Dylan had made no move to get up after him. Was just staring at him with a blank expression on his face.

                “Dyls, you’ve always been everything I needed, but I don’t ever want you to… I don’t know, force yourself to be something you’re not for me.” And then he bolted from the house, climbed into his car, and even though his mind was clouded by a thick haze, he tried to focus on the road as he made the drive to his parents’ place in Richmond Hill.  

_A hint of heartbreak still lingers in the air_

_And weeds have choked the breath out of it long ago_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, are y'all following me on tumblr? you can find me at strome-daddy.tumblr.com
> 
> ALSO THIS NUGE STUFF IS GONNA TURN INTO ANOTHER SEQUEL, I CAN FEEL IT.


	3. The Grand Optimist

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "He doesn’t really make the pain go away but. But he dulls it when he presses their bodies together, tangles their legs, and entwines the fingers on one of their hands..."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WZo31zMAySQ

_I fear I'm dying from complications,_

_complications due to things that I've left undone_

_“He’s got a beautiful heart. He’s a guy you like off the ice but hate on the ice.”_

                Dylan is seventeen, in Mitchell Marner’s billet bedroom. Mitch is high off the Knights’ win against the Otters, and Dylan… well Connor is blaming himself for the loss, and isolating himself from Dylan. And Dylan still doesn’t understand why Davo cutting him off feels like such a gaping wound in his chest.

                But Mitch. Mitch is this goofy, easy presence in his life who should, by all accounts, be his rival, but is really just one of his best friends. And he doesn’t really make the pain go away but. But he dulls it when he presses their bodies together, tangles their legs, and entwines the fingers on one of their hands, and. Dylan has heard of Mitch Marner’s affinity for bro cuddles, but this was not that.

                Mitch slips his free hand beneath Dylan’s sweater, splays his fingers across the flat plane of his belly, brushes them through the trail of dark hair that runs from below the waist band of his sweats.

                Fuck, Dylan was rock hard, and so was Mitch, and their hips were grinding together when Mitch finally looked up at him, blue eyes sparkling, and bridged the gap between their lips. And it wasn’t until Dylan was straddling Mitch’s hips, pressing him into the mattress, drunk on each other’s lips, tongues tasting and caressing one another’s that Dylan realized…

                _Fuck. I’m gay._  

_I am the world's poor pessimist_

                Dylan was in love with Connor McDavid – even if it had taken him a while to make sense of his feelings. But even once he’d understood them, there wasn’t much he could do about them; Connor was his best friend, straight, and pining over him wouldn’t change a thing. It didn’t exactly feel good, but it was easy to push the feeling aside when Dylan knew he didn’t have a chance.

                But then Davo had to go and drop that bombshell that he was not, in fact, straight. And suddenly the feelings weren’t so easy to repress.

                _“Yeah. I, uh, it’s just that I like… guys, and uh…”_ Dylan’s body had reacted before his brain had even fully processed the connotations of what he was doing, and just like that, Connor’s sentence had been cut short by Dylan’s kiss. Connor’s mouth had been plush, and soft, and he had even kissed him back tentatively before Dylan pulled away, unable to keep the smile from his face… Before he saw the look on Connor’s.

                The silence hung thickly in the air between them as Connor absently reached for his lips, his fingers lingering there as he stared blankly at Dylan for what felt like an eternity. And then he started to retreat, away from Dylan, hitting him with the _I cherish our friendship_ spiel. He was almost out the door when he paused. He turned around and looked at Dylan, faraway look in his eyes.

                _“Dyls, you’ve always been everything I needed, but I don’t ever want you to… I don’t know, force yourself to be something you’re not for me.”_

                But Connor didn’t understand that Dylan would never be something he wasn’t for him – if Dylan was true with himself, he knew that everything he wanted to be included being just right for Connor.

                It had been two days since Connor hauled ass out of his parents’ house in the ‘Sauga, two days of ignored texts, of phone calls going straight to voicemail, of absolute radio silence, and two days of pathetic moping.

                So yeah, Dylan’s life was going great.  

                 He really couldn’t handle his own pity-party anymore; he was irritating _himself_. He was due back in Arizona next week, due to move into Jakob Chychrun’s spare room as his rookie roommate. The only reason he was still here was to spend time with Davo… but with Davo ghosting him, what was keeping him here? He fired off a text to Chych.

                  ** _Dylan:_** _Hey bro, you chill if I come down there early?_

                Jakob’s response came in almost immediately.

**_Jakob:_ ** _Always ready for you, Stromedaddy_

_And now the wound has begun to turn, another lesson that has gone unlearned_

                If nothing else, over the month in Glendale that followed, Dylan learned that he’d improved his game enough to make the ‘Yotes roster full time. What he hadn’t banked on was breaking his wrist in his second game against the Vegas Golden Knights, and getting placed on injured reserve for six to eight weeks. Just his luck really.

                Now… now Dylan is twenty, in Mitchell Marner’s Toronto apartment, with his hand cased in plaster from his thumb to half way up his forearm, and he and Mitch are both fucking pining over their respective first over-all draft picks. Auston Matthews, who in every interview talked about Marns with hearts in his eyes, who in pictures always had his eyes cast Mitch’s way, refused to get his shit together and admit to having feelings. And Connor and Dylan were on a text-only basis. So both Dylan and Mitch were pretty miserable.

                But here in Mitch’s bed, just like when they were seventeen, Mitch’s lips are insistent against his, and his body is made of hard muscle, and he dulls the pain. It’s still there, but it’s easier to ignore with Mitch’s weight on top of him, and his hands seeking Dylan’s skin. Even easier when his fingers unbutton Dylan’s pants, and Mitch pulls them down to his thighs.

                “Oh fuck, Marns,” his voice comes out as a breathy sigh when Mitch’s lips wrap around his cock, his tongue circling expertly around its head, his cheeks hollowing as he sucks, and Dylan can’t help but think that it’s so easy like this. It could _be_ so easy for them, if only they could feel more for each other than friendship, could give each other more than orgasms.

                _But this is not a cry for pity or for sympathy_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am honestly struggling through this story, can you feel it? But it should get better from here on out, because it's like. Basically on track with Sometimes now, so it should NOT GIVE ME SUCH HORRIBLE WRITERS BLOCK???? Fuck. 
> 
> Anyhoo, if Dylan gets hurt early in the season, I'm personally blaming myself. 
> 
> Are you following me on tumblr? strome-daddy.tumblr.com


	4. Little Hell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will we get out of this little hell?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HD0vcAwHN7s

_What if I can't be all that you need me to be_

_We've got a good thing going, we have some promises to keep_

                Okay, so Connor had admittedly been overreacting for far too long about the whole Stromer kiss thing – he hadn’t more than texted Dylan, his best fucking friend, since _August_. Didn’t even call to congratulate him for making the Coyotes roster.

                To Connor’s credit, he was freaking the fuck out over the kiss. He hadn’t been able to stop thinking about it since he left Dylan’s bedroom, hadn’t been able to quiet his already chaotic mind, which was now perpetually screaming at him questionable thoughts about his feelings for Stromer.

                But like, he was still being a shitty friend, his brain told him.

                Connor had a four day off stretch at home between games against the Jets and the Sens, and was stretched out on his couch watching the second of the ‘Yotes back to back games against the Knights. He’d missed the first one.

                Because he was playing his own game. He wasn’t just further neglecting their friendship. He wished his brain would shut the fuck up about that.

                It had been such a freak accident; it was late in the second, and Dylan was intercepting a pass from Reilly Smith in the Knight’s zone. The puck was on his stick, and he was flying up the boards, still shy of the blue line when Jon Merrill came up on his right… The hit was clean, a total run of the mill check from a defenseman, and it had the intended effect; Dylan fumbled the puck. But in his attempt to get it back, his manoeuvre was unanticipated by Merrill, and the two collided, putting Dylan underneath the defenseman, pinned to the boards.

                The play was stopped, and Merrill skated back to his bench unaffected… But Dylan. Dylan was balled up in the foetal position, both arms cradled against his chest, and Connor had flashbacks to being boarded by Manning, leaving that game with a broken collar bone. He didn’t want that for his best friend, not when his professional career had already gotten off to a late start.

                Connor found he was holding his breath, leaning into the TV, waiting for Stromer to get up off the ice, to get back into the game.

                “Come on, Dyls. Get up!” he murmured, to no one in particular. But then PT came skating to him, helped him off the ice. The cameras showed a close up shot of his face as he was escorted out of the game, and God he looked so tired, his eyes looked completely lifeless, and Connor recognized his expression as one that was literal seconds away from a meltdown.

                “Fuck, Stromer.”

_What if everything's just the way that it will be_

_Could it be that I am meant to cause you all this grief?_

                It’s a couple days before Connor actually gets his shit together and calls Dylan, early on a Thursday morning, and he hasn’t even gotten out of bed yet but if he doesn’t call now while he has this feeling of conviction, he might wuss out again. He’s not _really_ surprised when Dylan picks up after a couple of rings, but he’s still, like, a little surprised, because Connor has basically made them strangers over the last month and a half.

                “Hey… Davo,” his greeting is hesitant, and Connor doesn’t blame him, but it’s a strange relief to hear his voice after so long, and God he’s missed Dylan.

                “Hi, Dyls,” he’s almost whispering, barely noticing that his eyes fall shut, and he’s relaxing back into his pillows, six weeks’ worth of tension melting from his shoulders. “I saw that, uh… how’s your… are you hurt?” Connor manages to stutter out, and Dylan is laughing, fucking _laughing_ at him from the other end of the line, and Connor knew if he could see himself he’d have this fond look plastered all over his face, and literally everyone he knew would be chirping him for it. Thank God he was alone.

                “I’m. Like, I’m not great,” he responds after a while, still managing to sound cheerful in spite of his words. “My wrist is broken, and I’m on IR for the next, like, eight weeks but. I should have known better than to get my hopes up about playing in the league,”

                “Hey, don’t say that, Dyls. I missed most of my first season,” Connor argued.

                “Yeah, but they still gave you the C next season and –

                “Yo, Stromer, who’s on the phone?” Connor heard another voice ask from the background.

                “Davo,” he replied simply.

                “Aw, no way! Look who finally decided to man up!” And like, ouch, that was a hard blow. True, maybe. But ouch.

                “Shut up, Mitch. He can probably hear you.” And. Oh. The other voice was Marns, which, considering the Leafs had played a home game last night, meant Dylan was in Toronto… and for some reason that Connor couldn’t identify, knowing that made his gut twist up in a less than pleasant way.

                “Good, he knows damn well I’d be busting his balls in person if I could be.”

                “Yeah, but.”

                “It’s fine, Stromer, Mitch is right,” Connor cut in, refusing to be a third party in his own long distance phone call any longer. “I’ve been acting like absolute shit and like. I know sorry doesn’t really cut it, but for what it’s worth… I am sorry, Dylan.”

_There's a degree of difficulty in dealing with me_

_From my haunted past comes a daunting task of living through memories_

_If we could just hang a mirror on the bedroom wall, stare into the past and forget it all_

                Dylan accepts his apology far too easily, as far as he’s concerned. So, just to grovel a little harder, he offers to fly Dylan out to Edmonton for their upcoming home stretch.

                Which, admittedly, is as much for his benefit as it is for Dylan’s but like. Semantics. Connor fucking misses his best friend, and after such a long time, needs to see him in person to make sure they’re okay.

_So when we leave it'll be a quick midnight escape_

_We'll disconnect ourselves from all of yesterday_

_I'll dig for water and fashion our very own wishing well_

_Then we'll throw our coins down hoping to rid us of this little hell_

                Dylan flies out of YYZ on Halloween, and Connor is waiting for him in Arrivals when he comes through the gate. And he looks.

                Good.

                Like, really fucking good.

                Objectively, Dylan has always been a good looking dude, but Connor has also never gone this long without seeing him – over face time, on Snapchat, in person – and him being here now, all at once, no easing into face-to-face interaction over, like, Skype or something was a little bit overwhelming.

                In spite of being out of the desert for almost a month, Dylan is still tanned this warm, golden bronze colour that looks so fucking good on him. He’s still rocking those frosted tips under his Coyotes ball cap, he looks like he hadn’t shaved in a couple of days, and like he hasn’t slept in a month, but his smile is as bright as ever when their eyes meet across the terminal.

                Dylan wraps him in a tight hug when they reach each other, and even though Dylan is only a couple of inches taller, Connor feels completely surrounded by him, and can’t help but feel completely contented here with his head on his best friend’s shoulder.

                “I missed you, Dyls.”

                “I missed you too, Davo.”

                When they pull away, Connor’s eyes are still locked on Dylan’s neck and the impossible to miss yellowing bite mark that’s been sucked into his skin, visible above the collar of his t-shirt, obvious enough that he doesn’t care who sees it, and Connor feels that same uncomfortable twisting in his stomach again.

_Will we get out of this little hell?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SEE, I wrote this chapter in a day. Writer's block be damned. I honestly spent most of this time making sure the timeline matched up with Sometimes, and making sure the travel was realistic between games and stuff. 
> 
> Following me on tumblr? strome-daddy.tumblr.com

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks, guys. 
> 
>  
> 
> Drop me a comment if you liked? Honestly, I just love comments!! :D Kudos are nice too.


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